


our wild hearts

by architecture_in_f1ll0ry



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Ghost is the goodest boy, M/M, jon's curls being released from their scrunchie breathe if you agree, the fluff gets intense so proceed with caution, there's a smidge of jon/dany but don't let that put you off, tormund is a giant teddy bear and also daddy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-23 00:33:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23002894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/architecture_in_f1ll0ry/pseuds/architecture_in_f1ll0ry
Summary: hey fellas is it gay to come back from war and run directly into the arms of your most cherished bro? asking for a friend
Relationships: Tormund Giantsbane/Jon Snow
Comments: 38
Kudos: 242





	1. Chapter 1

Jon does his best to focus on his sudden freedom, take in the fresh air (decidedly fresher, several hours after leaving the lingering wreckage of King’s Landing), and observe the passing landscape, but his mind is too heavy with images of the past month. He clings to the saddle, ignoring the various aches and strains in his back and neck where he’d grown accustomed to sleeping on a hard floor, grimacing every time another harrowing memory flashed through his mind. Dany, surveying the screaming horde of Dothraki; stoic, thundering Unsullied; righteous bloodlust gleaming in her eyes. The screams of children as they were incinerated alive, dying in the worst possible way for the sake of a war they could never, would never understand. Drogon helplessly turning his mother’s lifeless body, screaming his agony into the sky with a seemingly endless flood of flame. The only good things to come of this ill-fated final battle were buried so deep, Jon could barely access them now: the wretched throne, melted to nothing. His sisters’ gleaming faces, strong and sure as they embarked upon their own new adventures. His little brother—sort of—preparing to rule. His freedom.

Because that’s what it was, he knew, even as the other nobles watched him with pity and disdain as he prepared his horse, said his farewells. The poor bastard, that stupid Jon Snow, banished once again to the end of the world to live the rest of his days in frigid ignominy and irrelevance. If only they knew, Jon thinks, eyebrows drawn as his horse saunters down a wide, empty road, the air drawing itself cold and thin around him. The sun hangs low in the sky; clouds beginning to gather. If only they knew how little he cared for their titles and pomp, the trussed-up, flattering imbeciles at court, ever plotting their new grab for power. He believes the wheel is truly broken, with an ancient on the new throne, but for how long? Or—Jon swallows—would Bran’s power simply create a new kind of wheel, introduce a ruler who could not be ousted? Had he helped to create another kind of tyrant? He’d been betrayed by a brother before.

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut, quickening the horse’s gait. _Ask me in ten years_ , Tyrion had said, heavy-lidded eyes betraying all the exhaustion and guilt Jon also felt. They had done what they had done, and it was over. Jon’s part in this grand tale is over, for the foreseeable future, at least. 

He spots a sign for an inn ten leagues ahead, and just in time. The first few stars wink into the darkening sky just as the heavens open, unleashing a torrent of rain that soaks him instantly. Jon lowers his head and jolts his horse into a gallop, blinking away the water that streams from his eyes. If they are mixed with salt, he doesn’t know and doesn’t particularly care.

-

He has made this journey before, but after the ordeal he’s just faced, the long, slow trek through the howling wind and occasional snow blasts don’t feel nearly as violent as they did before. Pulling his furs tighter around him, he blinks through the endless expanse of white, breath puffing in the frigid air. For the first time since setting out from the dock where he said goodbye to his family, he feels a hitch of anticipation in his throat, a feeling jarringly foreign. He can’t expect many brothers to have survived, if he could still indeed call them his brothers—the familiar aches resurface—but the free folk, he knows, are now occupying Castle Black. Fierce, watchful, unburdened from the cares of the south. Unwavering in their loyalty, their love for each other. And none moreso than Tormund.

It is the first time Jon really allows himself to think of his friend since they’d embraced and said goodbye all those weeks ago. He didn’t deny it: it pained him to believe that he would never see the wildling again, never be pulled into the secure grip of his arms, never hear that fond growl rasping warm into his ear. _Little_ _Crow_. Jon hasn’t been a crow for quite some time, but it doesn’t matter. It was how they had met, that blustery day inside of Mance’s tent, Jon dropping to his knees in ignorant deference to the wrong king. He can still hear Tormund’s incredulous blast of laughter, and his cheeks warm now with remembered humiliation, the chuckles of the wildlings that surrounded him. He had been so young then.

But now—years later, he and Tormund have been through death and hell and back together. From bitterest enemies to suspicious allies, to the most cherished friends, though even _friend_ seems woefully inadequate. _You_ _never_ _know_ , Tormund had told him, when Jon was so sure he was staring into those discerning blue eyes for the last time. Gods, he’s going to be absolutely _insufferable_ when Jon sees him, all knowing grins and spine-crushing hugs. _What did I tell you, little crow?_ he’d bellow, probably, and Jon would be enveloped in that wholly familiar scent, a sharp, dark musk that always makes him think of trees, of blazing fires staving away the endless winter’s chill. Of home. 

And as if he conjured it, Jon finally breaks free of his musings to see a towering edifice not too far in the distance, decidedly less grand than it once was but still able to wrench a shocked breath from his chest. The storm he passed through hours ago slowed to a gentle dusting of flakes, and in the heightened visibility he is quickly able to make out the places where Castle Black has crumbled, a gaping hole left in the center of what can barely be called a wall. Good riddance, he thinks, even as his heart aches, just a little. He’s traveled so far from that naive, idealistic boy with barely a trace of a beard, desperate to prove his worth defending the seven kingdoms from the threat that lay beyond. Prove his worth as the bastard son of Ned Stark. And now? He isn’t sure who he is, or what he’s supposed to prove. He never had any answers, and he’s not sure he ever will.

The gates creak open as he approaches, revealing the courtyard he once called home. Here, the place where he defended Sam against Alliser Thorne’s abuse under the guise of training. Where he befriended Edd and Grenn and Pyp and the others. There, where he gave his first orders as Lord Commander. His horse ambles forward slowly, and he nods to the free folk who emerge, eyes narrowed in suspicion; some remember him, some do not. There are somehow less and more than he expected, and he can’t stop his gaze from darting around, seeking, heart in his throat. What if something happened, what if a rogue group of brigands happened upon them on their way here, what if--his mounting paranoia is interrupted by a few gasps and one shriek, and then Jon is sliding from the back of his horse, grinning from ear to ear as he collides with his wolf.

Ghost is silent as ever, but panting happily, wet nose snuffling in Jon’s hair. “Hey boy, I’m here, I’m here,” Jon laughs quietly, scrubbing his knuckles through the thick fur, once again near tears. “I know, I missed you too.” He straightens, still searching, and there he is--hands gripping the edge of the balcony, watching Jon with an unreadable look. Jon stares back, a jolt of heat blossoming in his chest, and tries to remember himself. He forces himself to break his gaze to walk his horse to the stable, ensure she has water and food, and greet the few free folk who exchange terse, grudgingly welcoming remarks to him.

“Been waitin’ for you, you know,” a squat, wizened woman with an eyepatch rasps, jerking her head upward. “Wouldn’t say it outright but we knew.” Jon only vaguely recognizes her, but he nods awkwardly, taking his leave. Tormund is no longer in the same spot when he looks up, but Jon only has a second to wonder where he’s gone before he’s wrapped up in a hug that punches the air out of his lungs with a rather ungainly sound that dissolves into relieved laughter. He wraps his arms around the larger man, gripping his furs tightly beneath his fingers, eyes falling shut as the amused, suspicious whispers grow around them. He doesn’t have it in him to care, not after everything he’d been through, everything he battled just to get back home. Tormund apparently doesn’t either, because after a few seconds, he grabs Jon’s face with his hands, thumbs brushing his temples as he smiles wide, eyes wet and gleaming.

“I _told_ you! Didn’t I _tell_ you?” he laughs, shaking Jon’s head slightly with every punctuated word, and Jon chuckles helplessly, grateful for this, for his warmth, for the easy physicality of their bond, grounding him as it always had. He somehow manages to nod, huffing out an unsteady breath when Tormund presses a brief, unexpectedly soft kiss on his forehead. He nearly whimpers with loss when Tormund pulls away, but is mollified when a heavy arm grapes over his shoulder, leading him back up the stairs. 

“Aye, you told me," Jon responds, eyeing the dispersing crowd with only some embarrassment, hoping his cheeks aren’t too pink. “I thought you were only trying to make me feel better.”

“Did it work?”

“No,” Jon admits. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

Tormund is quiet a moment, the only sound their heavy footfalls as they ascend to the Lord Commander’s chambers, finally away from the prying eyes of the free folk. His grip tightens on Jon’s shoulders, and Jon nearly crumples against him, suddenly feeling all of the leagues he’d traveled, the fears he’d buried beneath layers of guilt and grief--the fear that some new catastrophe would be awaiting him, that there would be no free folk left, that Tormund would be dead. Some new evil, some fresh hell for him to contend with, because that’s what he does, isn’t it, fight and fight and fight. Gods, he’d _died_ fighting, trying to do the right thing, and after death he was brought back for even more of the same. 

“It’s over, little crow,” Tormund murmured, and Jon realized with a jolt that what he thought were rambling thoughts were being spoken out loud. “Our numbers are lessened, but there’s been no sign of any kind of army, and especially no dead one. We’re keeping a wight locked up in a cage, just to be sure. All quiet. Stinks like hell, though.” He deposits Jon onto the bed, then scoots down to begin unlacing his boots.

“You don’t have to—” Jon protests weakly, trying to sit up, but falls silent at the fond glare Tormund shoots him. He feels boneless and limp, and probably couldn’t undress himself if he tried. “Thank you.”

Tormund grunts, fingers working nimbly to drop one snow crusted boot to the ground, then another. Jon just manages to shrug out of his overclothes and burrow beneath the covers, sighing in relief at the warm softness he’d sorely lacked for so long. He dozes off a few times while Tormund shuffles around, humming tunelessly under his breath, and only rouses slightly when he feels the mattress dip, fingers carding through his hair. When his eyes blink open, Tormund is watching him with a blazing look that Jon struggles to categorize. Flames crackle in the fireplace, infusing the room with warmth.

“Glad you’re not dead, little crow,” Tormund says finally, tugging on a few errant black curls. Jon’s lips curl into a smirk, unable to stop his eyes from drooping shut again. He decides not to examine the slow curl of heat in his stomach, the urge to push his head further into Tormund’s hand, to pull him down so they’re laying side by side. They’ve touched and even slept together many times, to keep warm in the unforgiving winter nights, but this feels different, more intimate than they’ve ever been. Jon doesn’t mind it. At all.

“Thought you _knew_ I’d be back,” Jon teases sleepily, and he feels the bed shake with Tormund’s laughter, releases an involuntary sigh when the hand carding through his hair is replaced by warm lips, the edges of a thick beard tickling his temple. His limbs are heavy, and he can feel sleep dragging him under, the world taking on a hazy, dreamlike quality. “Not so smug now, are you.”

“Go to sleep, Jon,” Tormund orders softly, and so Jon does. 

//

_Dany approaches her awaiting subjects, arms outstretched, giant, webbed wings unfurling behind her. Jon is awestruck anew by her beauty, ethereal in the southern sun. He stands rooted to the spot, silent, until he realizes it’s because he’s been bound, hand and foot. He listens in mounting horror as she describes her plan for the worldwide unshackling of chains, far-off kingdoms he’d never even heard of, spoken in a tongue that he knows in his heart, yet only hears as babble in his ears. This is not who she is, Jon feels that in his heart, but every glance she sends his way, every touch, makes him recoil. And now, standing here, having chained himself to her will, he realizes that yet again, he has proven that he knows nothing. He opens his mouth to interrupt her, to bring an end to her crusade, to make her see reason, but any words he hoped to speak are instead subsumed into a lash of flame that transforms the first few rows of Unsullied soldiers to screaming, smoldering husks. Dany turns to him with a wide grin, the flickering flames dancing in her wide eyes like triumph. His chains fall to the earth._

//

He awakes gasping and drenched in sweat, staring sightlessly at the ceiling for several long minutes, until his racing heart begins to slow. Night has fallen and he can hear the distant sounds of the free folks laughing, singing, and jesting below. The smell of charred meat wafts through, and Jon has to fling away the bed furs to sit up, placing his feet on the ground and his head in his hands. His gut churns, the memories of King’s Landing mingling with the remnants of his dream. He takes steady breaths, tears prickling his vision, and doesn’t move when he hears the door swing open. 

“What is it?” Tormund demands, shutting the door and striding over to the bed. Jon shakes his head once slightly, unwilling to disturb his tenuous equilibrium for fear of vomiting everywhere. 

“Dreams,” Jon responds tersely, taking a chance and glancing up. Tormund is standing in front of him holding a horn of smoking liquid. “What’s that.”

“From Magya,” Tormund says, as if that explains anything. He brandishes it at Jon, spilling a little on the floor. It smells spicy and sweet but surprisingly, not terrible. Jon takes it and sips slowly, aware of Tormund watching him.

“Good?”

“It is,” Jon admits, relieved to feel his stomach settle almost instantly. “Who’s Magya?” he asks, taking another sip. 

“Older than dirt and smarter than all of us combined. Legend has it she popped out her own eye to save her child. Forgot the details.” Ah, the woman in the eyepatch. Tormund sits in a nearby chair, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees. His eyes are piercing as he watches Jon drink, and he quirks an eyebrow when Jon looks up.

“What?” he asks suspiciously, suddenly hyper-aware of how little clothing he’s wearing, having snatched it off at some point while he slept beneath the heavy furs. He resists the urge to adjust his tunic, and cover his exposed collarbone. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Tormund asks plainly. Jon huffs a small laugh, momentarily displacing a curl that falls into his face.

“Be specific.”

Tormund shrugs grandly, leaning back in the chair and stretching. Jon can hear a bone or two pop and wonders how long Tormund has been up, attending to his people, keeping watch, babysitting Jon. He feels a sting of shame, though he’s not exactly sure what to do with it. “You can start with whatever dream made you shout to seven hells just now.”

Jon flushes, gritting his teeth. He had no idea he’d shouted. “I’m—“

“Don’t apologize, boy,” Tormund interrupts, waving away whatever Jon was going to say. “You’ve seen real horrors. They’re gonna bleed out somewhere.”

Jon drains the horn and drops it, scrubs his face with his hands. “Do they all think I’m mad?”

“If they do, they’re wise enough to keep it from me.”

Jon doesn’t doubt it. They’ve all witnessed firsthand what happens when anyone insults someone Tormund has claimed, though Jon isn’t sure what to do with the slow pleasure that spreads through him at the thought of everyone counting him among that number. He’s not a fool, he knows what they must assume. For the first time, he gets a good look at the chamber Tormund led him to hours ago. Wildlings don’t have many possessions--impractical for a nomadic lifestyle--but Jon recognizes the short pile of furs in one corner, the small blade that Tormund uses to trim his sizable beard. Tormund follows his gaze and guesses the direction of his thoughts, smirking. “You were a frightfully easy one to steal, little crow.”

“Fuck off,” Jon shoots back, heat rising up his neck, but it’s barely audible beneath Tormund’s raucous laugh. “How long did I sleep?”

“As long as you needed to. Why, do you have somewhere to be? A war council meeting to get back to?” Tormund is teasing, but he doesn’t miss Jon’s flinch.

“No.” He doesn’t offer any more, and Tormund sighs.

“It is worth trying to get you to eat?”

“No.” Jon sounds like a petulant child. “Sorry, I—just need some time.” He stands and stretches, aware of Tormund’s eyes on him, pretending he isn’t. “I’m going to find Ghost, get some air.” He casts about momentarily for the right way to phrase his question. “I’ll bed in the next chamber tonight, then? I didn’t mean to take over.” When he looks up, Tormund is leaning back in the chair, far enough back that the front two legs leave the ground. His expression is flat, but not unfriendly.

“That what you want, then?” he asks quietly, and Jon feels the air change pressure, somehow, knowing that they’re poised on the precipice of something significant. He thinks of his walk towards the Red Keep, the sizzle of burning flesh, the shock of treason, his miserable imprisonment, and the journey here. The longest journey he’s ever taken. He decided he wanted out, didn’t he? No more games, no more posturing for the sake of propriety and reputation. 

“No, it’s not,” Jon says plainly. Tormund raises an eyebrow, and Jon holds his gaze, trying to appear braver than he feels.

“Alright.” Alright. The room is silent as Jon bundles up, and he glances back on his way out of the door to see Tormund gazing pensively upward, stroking his beard.

“Give the pup my best,” he grunts, and Jon smiles as he shuts the door. 

The stars are out in their full splendor, set like diamonds in the midnight sky. There are still a few wildlings milling about, mostly men, sitting around fires, exchanging stories, drinking. They watch Jon pass but don’t stop their conversations, for which he feels profoundly grateful. At some point he’ll need to address them, they’ll need to make a plan of some sort, but for now, he enjoys the pretense of anonymity, and wonders how much Tormund has told them, how much he knows, even. His steps crunch gently in the snow as he approaches the small copse of trees that he knows Ghost favors. He’ll have to rehash it all very soon. It will likely help him lighten the burden that weighs impossibly heavy on his heart, but he can’t help but feel speaking all of it aloud will conjure the very phantoms he hopes to avoid. 

He feels a soft nudging against his thigh, and looks down to find the comforting shock of white fur, those glowing red eyes. They transport him momentarily to the godswood of Winterfell, the red-leaved weirwood trees where he spent much of his youth. He sinks to the ground, back propped against a tree, and Ghost slumps down as well, settling his head into Jon’s lap, tongue lolling out happily when Jon tangles his fingers into the fur on the top of his head.

“Here we are, boy,” Jon murmurs, looking down at him fondly, and Ghost just breathes against him, understanding and content, as empty clouds swirl overhead. 

//

Jon hears Tormund before he sees him, shouts of laughter that make him smile despite his joints that have stiffened in the cold. He’d stayed out with Ghost much longer than he’d intended, and longed for the warmth of a fire now. 

“There ‘e is!” Tormund cries, grinning wildly, eyes fond. He’s seated at a small bonfire with two fellows who have been loyal to Tormund for years, Frig and Hama, sharing a horn of...something. Jon learned the hard way to never assume. “C’mere, little crow, you deserve this more than any of us.” He offers it to Jon, and Jon takes it with a nod, trying not to look too wary.

“Fermented goat’s milk, then?” he questions, gamely takes a swig. Just sour ale, thank the gods.

“I knew you’d develop a taste for it,” Tormund laughs, slapping him on the back, then jabbing his thumb at the two others. “These fuckers don’t believe me about Brienne. Go on, tell them how much she was in love with me.”

Jon caught Hama’s eye and smirked, taking another swallow before passing it to Frig. “Keep telling yourself that, my friend.”

“Solid as a brick wall, she was,” the redhead muses theatrically, as if Jon hadn’t even spoken. Frig snorts loudly, and Tormund thumps his chest. “And a goddamned knight to boot. Argh--” he grabs Jon unexpectedly, squeezing him tightly around the shoulders. “I can’t complain when my pretty crow here came back to me, now can I?”

Jon rolls his eyes, glad for the cover of relative darkness to hide the pink in his cheeks as he’s manhandled by Tormund. Hama and Frig seem blessedly unaffected, used to Tormund’s performative affection. “How have you all settled back in?” he asks them all, gamely changing the subject. 

“Well, all things considered,” Hama responds, then releases an ungainly belch. “But the people are restless. Now you’re back, we need to be movin’ on.”

“Aye, this fuckin’ place.” Frig spits. “Can still feel the blood of our brothers here. Shames them for us to linger.”

“Afraid of some ghosts, Friggie?” Tormund taunts, but there’s no real ire in his tone. Frig glares at him all the same.

“You’re right,” Jon says, heading off whatever retort was coming. He glances at Tormund, gestures with his head to the distant gate. “Winter is coming to an end. It makes sense for us to move on, now the threat has passed.”

Tormund nods, eyes gleaming with pride. “Aye. We’ll start preparations tomorrow.” 

They stay up a while longer, talking and passing the horn until it’s empty. When Hama nearly slumps into the fire, dozing, they part ways for the night. Jon follows Tormund up the stairs to his--their bedchamber, only slightly drunk, and light-headed for another reason entirely. Tormund lights a candle and begins undressing the moment he steps through the door, while Jon closes and locks the door and tries not to stare.

“I know you came all this way to outrun the fancy titles,” Tormund says, breaking the silence easily as he kicks off his pants without a trace of self-consciousness. “But King Beyond the Wall suits you, you know.”

Jon slants him an incredulous look, pausing in his undressing. “You’re joking.”

“You united us, Jon,” Tormund says gruffly, finally collapsing into the bed, one arm resting lazily over his head, the other scratching at his stomach. Jon’s seen him in his smallclothes a precious few times, and is struck anew by the solidness of him, the corded muscle in his arms, and thighs… “There’s no court or fancy frocks. No one’s gonna fuckin’ kneel. Don’t overthink it.”

“Can I not overthink it tomorrow?” Jon grumbles, mollified when he hears Tormund chuckle. Then there’s no sound but the wind, whistling high and slow, sending an icy draft through a crack in the window. The firepit is bare and empty, and Jon realizes with a jolt that in order to light it, he’ll need to bend over, essentially, right in Tormund’s line of sight, dressed in nothing but his smallclothes. 

He’s battled armies of the undead and ridden on the back of a dragon, damn it. Besides, wasn’t this what he wanted? An excuse to--to _what_ , exactly? He doesn’t finish the thought, instead focuses on his task of striking the flint, the rasping scrape sounding unnaturally loud in the room.

“Little Crow.”

Jon starts, and covers it with a cough. “You can call me that if you want, but I won’t _respond_ to it.”

“Like you just did?” Tormund ducks and laughs when Jon throws one of the smaller sticks at him, and the tension is broken. “What happened down there?”

“Down where?” Jon asks, still chuckling, when the fire finally catches. Tormund is silent, and he glances over his shoulder to find the wildling just watching him patiently. His heart thuds woodenly in his chest. Oh. 

He turns, stalls for a few moments by stacking the wood, fanning the flame to help it grow. “I killed her.” He hadn’t meant to start there. He stares into the fire for a few seconds, then turns abruptly, standing and pacing over to the window. It’s closed, but he’s not there anymore, he’s watching her skin pale, her eyes grow glassy, he hears the soft, liquid choke that slows within her chest with each passing second. His hands clench on the edge of the windowsill, and the fire behind suddenly seems to blaze unnaturally brighter for a moment. From the corner of his eye, he sees Tormund sit up.

“She...she had her dragon destroy the city. The _entire_ city,” Jon bites out, voice shaking. He pauses, swallowing. “They rang the bells of surrender. We all heard it. _She_ heard it. There was quiet, for a good while. I didn’t want to hope, but I thought that maybe--” his head drops between his shoulders, back tight and strained with the old aches. “And then we heard it. The wings, beating the sky. Too fast. And then the flame.” Jon laughs wetly, nearly beyond himself. “Sweeping every street, destroying it all. Every child. Every woman. Every man. Every living thing. The entire city.”

“And your men?” Tormund asks. Jon breathes in, breathes out. The fire pulses with his breath. 

“They lost their minds. She had given them permission. I tried to stop them, I tried to—it was a fool’s errand. I wasn’t—I couldn’t—” Jon shakes his head rapidly, blind with grief, knowing his words were coming too fast, unable to stop. “I told her to run.”

“Who?” Tormund asks, confused. Jon shakes his head again. 

“I don’t know, I don’t know her name.”

The fire crackles on, barely concealing the sound of Jon’s too-steady breaths, ragged. 

“A woman. She listened, she ran. I made sure her pursuer was dead. Devon, I think his name was. Devon Umber. I’d met him only once or twice before, but he was a good lad. A father. I don’t even know if he recognized me.”

“War changes men, Jon.” Tormund’s voice was low, careful, and coming from behind him. Jon turned his head, not meeting his gaze. He opened his mouth, then closed it, releasing a small, rueful chuckle that didn’t contain a trace of cheer. After a moment, he spoke.

“When it was over, Tyrion turned against her and she imprisoned him. I tried to...I spoke to him. He told me what needed to be done. How blind we all had been. And I didn’t want to listen—gods.” He stops, forces himself to continue to draw the poison from the wound. He can feel Tormund hovering, and his heart grows warm in his chest, tears threatening to spill. “I just wanted to _leave_. To rid myself of all of it. She had murdered thousands, and she wanted to continue. She spoke of freeing every kingdom from tyranny, from the very horror she planned to bring. And she asked me to free them with her.” 

Tormund places a hand on Jon’s shoulder, and Jon nearly buckles beneath its unexpected gentleness.

“I...I kissed her, and then I stabbed her. She suspected nothing. She died in my arms.” Jon swallows when the hand squeezes, ignoring the frisson of heat that skitters down his spine. “I did love her, though in the end, I—“

Another squeeze, harder this time. “It’s all right, boy,” Tormund grunts, and Jon feels a sudden, incandescent rage rise in him. He steps away, away from the warmth of the larger man’s hand, as tempted as he’d felt a moment ago to sway into it.

“All right?” Jon laughs once, harshly, shooting Tormund an incredulous look. “I _killed_ her!”

“After she burned an entire city in less than a day,” the wildling rebuts easily, arching an eyebrow. “Your people crowned you king because you know how to do what needs to be done. For the masses.” He isn’t cowed in the face of Jon’s anger; he’s speaking low, staring steadily into Jon’s eyes. “You said it yourself, she wanted to fly that dragon all over the world, burning as she went.”

“Yes, but—”

_“But_ nothing.” Tormund grabs both shoulders this time, shaking him a little. “Dammit, Snow, you left here to save lives and you bloody did. You _did_.”

“I couldn’t save her.” Jon is shocked and somewhat ashamed to feel tears wetting his cheeks, all of his anger now bled away to grief, but Tormund doesn’t falter, doesn’t judge. His gaze and his grip are the only things keeping Jon upright.

“No,” Tormund agrees softly. “But you understand war, little crow. Better than most.” He hesitates a moment, then brings one hand up to sweep a thumb across Jon’s cheek, catching the moisture there. Jon flinches at the soft touch, flushing at the sudden intimacy of their position, at the warring desires within him: to collapse, weeping, into Tormund’s chest; to grip the front of his clothing, pull him down and—he swallows, striking a compromise by turning into the hand touching his face, exhaling shakily as he brushes his lips against the warm palm.

“Snow,” Tormund’s voice is a deep rumble, and Jon takes a chance, looks up to find the other man watching him with too-bright eyes, questioning. Jon brings one hand up to cradle Tormund’s as it rests against his face, only breaking their eye contact to turn a place a deliberate kiss in the same spot he’d merely brushed before. He’s said what he needed to say; enough of it for tonight, at least, and he’s tired of talking, tired of fighting, of running. Running from this. Tormund slides an arm around his waist, squeezing, and Jon is pressed against him, chest to hips. It’s a position that he’s known countless times over the few years he’s known the man, but it’s never felt so charged, so precarious. He tamps down a hysterical giggle at the picture they must make, at the fact that he’s found himself here, back at Castle Black, in the arms of a wildling man he once called an enemy. His upbringing told him what he was feeling defied all laws of nature; that the sweet ache low in his belly, the sharp throb between his legs were signs of deviance. But why should he care anymore? Denying it was impossible; he’d been trying to for so long, and now he just _wanted_.

“Stop thinking so hard, little crow,” Tormund chided, teasing. Jon’s cheeks warm, but he smiles, letting himself react the way he felt, rather than the way propriety dictated. Smiling has always been so much easier around Tormund. He relaxes into the embrace, tilting his head upwards, eyes darting down to the wildling’s lips. Tormund takes pity on him, meeting him halfway for a gentle brush of lips that weakens Jon’s knees and makes him clutch the other man closer to him, craving more of him. He can’t help the way his mouth falls open, and he thrills to hear Tormund growl softly and lick his way inside, the kiss growing more rough, more bold, with each passing second. They continue to nip and taste each other until their lungs demand air, and they pull away just far enough to rest their foreheads together, laughing softly.

“Why now?” Tormund wonders, sliding a hand up Jon’s back, his neck, fingers tugging at the band in his hair until it comes loose, letting his curls spill onto his shoulders. Jon smirks at the open want on the other man’s face, feeling as close to giddy as he could ever remember being. He surges up to capture Tormund’s lips in another kiss before answering, just because he can.

“I’ve wanted this,” he admits, voice husky as images flow through his mind, other things he wanted, things he’d barely allowed himself to imagine, not in full detail. But now, with the wildling so close, so open and willing, he can’t help but see them: flushed, naked skin pressed together, thick, clever fingers stretching him open, the sounds they’d make as Tormund buried himself inside Jon, finally, finally. “Wanted you.” He has to close his eyes against the blaze of desire that overtakes him, and Tormund chuckles darkly, as if reading his thoughts.

“That didn’t answer my question, little crow,” he replies easily, the hand that’s not gripping his hair sneaking down to squeeze his arse, shocking a low gasp from him. “Why now?”

Jon’s skin feels like it now bears a permanent flush, needing nothing more than Tormund’s hands on him, all over him. “Because I don’t want to _wait_ any more,” he says plainly, staring into the blue eyes he’s come to know so well. “Now shut up, will you?” he ignores Tormund’s amused grin as he pulls him down for another kiss, and this time, the wildling doesn’t interrupt it, sucking and biting gently on Jon’s lips, breath fanning hot against his mouth, pleased with the involuntary sounds spilling from Jon’s throat. They kiss until they’re breathless, and then Jon is unlacing the front of Tormund’s clothing, eager to feel skin against skin. Tormund reciprocates, and soon they’re both bare, backing up until they can fall into the bed, sinking into another deep kiss.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SMUT AHOY

The kiss is molten, desperate, Jon straddling Tormund’s lap, one hand gripping his side as the other slides through the wild copper curls that he’d been longing to feel for ages. One of Tormund’s large hands brackets Jon’s jaw, tilting his head to deepen the kiss as his other hand slips down to caress burning skin, thumb rubbing against a hip bone, slowly, slowly. It tickles, and Jon shifts above him, any thought of laughing vanished when he feels a hard line of heat against the inside of his thigh, pulling a low growl from Tormund’s chest as his fingers clench even tighter around Jon. 

It’s thrilling, it’s gloriously new, and yet it still feels like home, coaxing small grunts from Jon with every undulation of his hips, dragging his aching hardness against Tormund’s, breaths quickening, the sound of their lips and tongues and sharp, swallowed gasps filling the room. Jon’s skin was on fire, every sense heightened, not thinking, not rationalizing or compartmentalizing for once, just _feeling_. Tormund’s hands spread, sliding up, over Jon’s stomach, his chest, then warm against his neck, then his face was cradled in those large palms before they were moving downwards again, sliding around his back and down to clench possessively around his ass, physically lifting and resettling him so that their cocks rubbed together, trapped and straining, pulling a low cry from Jon as his hips redoubled their movements. Lungs fit to burst, they finally broke the kiss but couldn’t move away, just panting softly against each other’s mouths, bodies still moving, desperate to get closer. The tension is only broken somewhat when Tormund smiles, pressing one kiss, then another, against Jon’s lips.

Jon hums contentedly, kissing the corner of Tormund’s mouth, his jaw, his cheek. He opens his eyes and meets Tormund’s gaze, softer than he’s ever seen it, and wonders why his cheekbones ache before he realizes it’s because he’s _grinning_. And then their smiles meet for another kiss, which becomes another, the motion of their bodies calming as the moment bleeds into something softer, sweeter; deep, slow kisses that feel positively intoxicating. After a while, Tormund growls happily into Jon’s mouth, brushes his lips up and across the swell of his cheek, over to nip his ear, then lick the shell of it, huffing a laugh when Jon shivers. 

“I want to make you forget your troubles, little crow,” Tormund breathes, dipping down to nip a little harder at the skin below his ear, then kissing it. “Can I?”

“You _ffff--_ ” Jon laughs out a moan when Tormund unexpectedly bucks his hips up against Jon’s, slow and filthy, a promise. “You fucking better.”

“Cheeky.” Jon gasps when a heavy hand connects solidly with his arse, the flash of pain quickly morphing into pleasure. Tormund chuckles appreciatively, buries his face in Jon’s neck, and this time, Jon is ready for the second smack, and shivers out another laugh, feeling a flush rise from his chest to the tips of his ears. Now that they’d finally crossed the threshold, he can admit how much he wants this, wants to surrender to this, fully relinquish control to the one person he knows will take care of him in ways he’s never experienced before. 

“You’ve no idea how long I wanted to do that. You got an arse made to worship, little crow,” Tormund growls into his skin, inhaling, the tip of his nose dragging along the underside of his jaw. His grip tightens around Jon’s waist and then he’s turning them, depositing Jon on his back and hovering over him, giving him a saucy wink. “Even prettier when you blush, anyone ever tell you that?”

“ _Gods_ , shut up,” Jon groans, feeling his face burn hotter than ever, grabbing Tormund to pull him closer, silencing him with a fierce kiss. They lose themselves in the taste of each other for several long moments, reveling in the wholly new and wonderful sensation of skin against skin. Finally, Jon shifts, and a soft whine escapes him when their cocks slide together. Tormund nips at his lips and then pulls back, eyes roving over Jon’s face.

“You want me?” he breathes, and Jon rolls his eyes even as his hips roll upwards. 

“Don’t ask stupid questions.” They both laugh softly into another kiss, and Jon tangles a hand in Tormund’s hair, the other mapping the muscled planes of his back, sliding down to caress his side, his waist. He feels buoyant with joy, with want, and he spreads his legs a bit wider, gasping when Tormund snakes a hand between their bodies to encircle both of their cocks in his fist. They move against each other, panting, and Tormund drops kisses along Jon’s chest, bites gently, then harder, at one nipple, then another, huffing small laughs at each sound Jon fails to conceal. Jon sit up on his elbows when Tormund dips his tongue into his navel, and bites his lip when blue eyes meet his before a warm, wet heat encircles the tip of his cock, sinking lower and lower until Jon can feel himself touch the back of Tormund’s throat. 

“ _Gods_ , Tor--!” Jon bites out, collapsing back against the bed, unable to hold himself up as the wildling pulls back and swallows him down again, sucking him at an unhurried pace while large hands bracket his trembling thighs, holding him open. “Wait- _-waitwait_ , I’m gonna--”

Tormund moans around him, pulling off only to lick his lips, growl, “ _Do it_ ,” before taking him completely in once more, clever fingers sliding up and inwards to fondle and squeeze his balls, humming in satisfaction again as Jon strains to thrust upwards, fingers tugging at Tormund’s curls. When they lock eyes again, Jon cries out, hips finally stilling as his cock empties down Tormund’s throat, vision blurring with the speed and ferocity of his orgasm. 

“I like the sounds you make, Jon Snow,” Tormund rasps, grinning at Jon’s slightly dazed expression, taking advantage of his bonelessness to spread him even further. “Can I hear some more?”

“Wha--” Jon begins, pleasantly confused, and jerks in surprise when Tormund ducks down to lick a long, firm stripe against his arsehole. “ _Fucking_ hell!”

“Mmm,” Tormund agrees, giving him another lick, and another. Jon’s face is burning again, his desire to pull away at war with his need for more, his need winning. Tormund’s hands are so _big_ , his fingers nearly spanning the circumference of Jon’s hips, and his eyes are closed in bliss as he works Jon slowly open with his tongue. When he pulls away, his hair is a fiery halo around his head, lips shining, and Jon can barely catch his breath, aching with want, nearly hard again.

“Turn over, little crow.” Jon complies immediately, sinking into a position that makes his ears turn bright red with something that feels dangerously close to shame, but he stops caring when Tormund sets to work again, spreading him and spearing that clever tongue into his hole with gusto. There’s a sudden lack as Tormund shifts away for a moment, and Jon drops his head between his shoulders, groaning at the loss. There’s a soft pop, like a cork unstopping a bottle, and then Tormund is back, smoothing calloused fingers over an arse cheek, giving it an appreciative squeeze. 

“Do I want to know what that is, or why you had it so close by?” Jon manages to grind out, looking over his shoulder, and Tormund smirks, coating his fingers in the oil.

“I like to be prepared,” he replies simply, sliding one finger in without preamble, placing a gentle kiss at the base of Jon’s spine when he stiffens. “Relax, boy.”

“Some warning would be nice,” Jon grumbles, but there’s no heat in it; he’s already adjusting to the slight burn and stretch, and feels ready for more. As if he’d read his mind, Tormund adds a second finger, pushing in slowly, slowly, his other hand coming around to tug at Jon’s length, coaxing him to full hardness. Jon stutters out a moan, eyes clenched shut, quickly becoming addicted to the feeling of being stretched open, completely at Tormund’s mercy. A third finger slides in, twisting and stretching, and Jon realizes with a start that the low-pitched keening he’s hearing is coming from him, and finds himself unable to care. And when Tormund pushes in deeper, fingers brushing against a spot that makes Jon suddenly see stars and his dick blurt out a sudden rush of fluid, he cries out loud, blood thundering through his veins.

“That’s it,” Tormund breathes, massaging the spot over and over, alternating soft and biting kisses across Jon’s shoulders and back. “Good?”

Jon arches his back under the pleasurable assault, gripping the furs beneath him desperately, soft cries tumbling from his open mouth. “Yes, _fuck_ ,” he moans, turning his head in the direction of the wildling’s voice, aching for more. “Tormund, _please--_ ”

Tormund hums, pleased, and Jon can feel, through the haze, the curve of his smile against the skin of his shoulder, then the blunt, sweet pain of teeth sinking into the back of his neck. “Please _what_ , Jon?” 

_Gods_. Jon growls beneath him, unable to stop the rocking of his hips, needing to be filled. “I’m ready, just...do it,” he bites out, and receives a stinging smack against the plump rise of his ass for his trouble. _“Fuck!”_

“I like it when you beg, little crow.” Tormund’s voice drops dangerously low, breath huffing against Jon’s ear. “Let me hear you.” Jon may just pass out before this is all done, the way his nerves are so deliciously on edge. He growls again, furious with need, cock dripping onto the bed beneath him. 

“ _Do_ it, fuck me,” Jon breathes in a rush, heat rushing through him, lighting him up. He both hears and feels Tormund’s low groan against his back, and pushes back, arching his back even more. “Please, _please_ , Tormund, I need it.” Before he can say another word the fingers are gone and he’s being manhandled onto his back, legs in the air, and Tormund is leaning over him with a wild look, eyes completely dilated, squeezing the base of his cock. Jon’s chest heaves and he bites his lip, feeling another flash of heat when Tormund tracks the motion hungrily, swallowing. He watches as Tormund lines himself up and Jon can’t help the way his mouth falls open as he begins to push in, hissing at the enormity of it, the slow burn, but needing it too much to dare tell him to stop. An eternity later, Tormund is fully sheathed inside of him, and Jon takes a few calming breaths, arms clutched tight around the larger man as he groans into Jon’s neck, holding himself still.

“You alright?” he punches out, pulling back to look at Jon, the restraint etched plainly across his face. Jon surges up to kiss him, licking into his mouth, and rolls his hips up, huffing a small laugh when Tormund releases a loud moan, biting at Jon’s lower lip. 

“Thought I asked you to fuck me,” Jon quips shakily, and Tormund grins down at him before pulling nearly all the way out and thrusting back in, setting a brisk pace, wrenching desperate sounds from the both of them. It’s good, sinfully good, and Jon feels like a damned fool for denying this for so long, now that he knows how perfect and right it feels. He clutches Tormund closer to him, until he can barely pull out between thrusts, just a deep, rocking grind that punches the air out of him, pleasure sparking low in his groin as Tormund hits that spot inside him again, and again, and again. He’s lost in it, his cries muffled into Tormund’s jaw as he chases his climax, cock trapped and rubbing deliciously against their bodies, smearing thick fluid between them. Tormund peels himself away just enough to properly thrust again, driving into him with soft grunts that steadily bring him towards the edge, balls tightening with his impending orgasm. After his next thrust he pulls all the way out, and Jon nearly sobs, out of his mind with need. 

“Don’t worry, little crow, I’m gonna make you see stars,” Tormund chuckles when Jon wordlessly protests, lifting Jon up to straddle him, holding the base of his cock and directing Jon to impale himself onto it, clutching his hips when he complies. “That’s it, take what you need.” A blush climbs up Jon’s skin at the new position but he quickly loses himself in it, unable to slow the roll of his hips as he rides Tormund’s cock, eyes falling shut in bliss at the depth of the new angle. He braces himself against Tormund’s chest, fingers curling into the thick, curly hair as he works himself over on his hard length, hips picking up speed as again feels himself nearing the edge. Tormund can’t take his eyes off of him, watching with a desperate hunger as Jon takes his pleasure, cock red and weeping against his stomach, curls wild, small cries falling from his open mouth. Tormund plants his heels and spread his legs, thrusting upwards, and chuckles lowly when Jon’s eyes flutter shut, one of his hands shifting back to clutch tightly against his thigh, hips undulating wildly. 

“Tor, please, _fuck_ ,” Jon begs, breathless, eyes open and unseeing. 

“Yeah,” Tormund grunts, fisting Jon’s cock, stroking him roughly as he fucks up into him again, pulling a strangled yell from the smaller man. “So _fucking_ beautiful, taking my cock like this. Look at you. Are you gonna come for me, little crow?”

“ _Yes_ , gods, _please--_ ”

“Come on my cock, go on. I want to see it.”

He should be a bit quieter, he knows, but he can’t care, not when Tormund is working him like this, coaxing out spurt after spurt of hot come even as he continues to fuck him open, wringing every last shaking drop of pleasure from his body. When he slumps, sated, Tormund deftly rolls them over without pulling out, and Jon whimpers softly as Tormund thunders into him anew, grunting loudly as he spends himself inside Jon, warmth filling his hole as the wildling shudders through his final thrusts. There are several long, hazy moments as they just breathe together, floating back down to earth as the wind continues to howl outside, the fireplace crackling softly in the corner. 

Tormund pulls out of Jon slowly and reaches down to find a shirt to clean them, tossing it back onto the floor and resettling himself over the smaller man with a contented sigh, a heavy arm slung over his waist, face pressed into his chest. Jon draws gentle, circular patterns up his arm, across his shoulders, and down his back, unable to remember the last time he’d felt so at peace, so wonderfully sated, so... _happy_. The thought makes tears prick at the corners of his eyes, which he tries to blink away, but when Tormund hums and looks up at him, he’s caught. 

Mercifully, he doesn’t say anything for a moment, and they both just let the moment linger in silence, gazing into each others’ eyes. Tormund drags a hand slowly up Jon’s thigh, continues up his stomach and chest, his neck, coming up to rest in his hair, scratching gently against his scalp. He shifts up and Jon meets him halfway in a soft, lingering kiss, continuing to sweep his hand across Tormund’s back, heart nearly full to bursting in his chest. They pull apart just to kiss again, and then once more, and Tormund huffs a small laugh when Jon playfully nuzzles their noses, a sound he doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of.

“Tormund,” he sighs, and smiles when he’s pulled into another kiss. When they separate again, Jon traces the soft lines of his face, the angles he’s come to know so well, meets the piercing blue gaze with quiet ferocity. Too much. He buries his face in Tormund’s neck, inhaling the scent of sweat, of cedar, of heat.

“You came back, little crow.” Tormund tugs lightly on his hair, and Jon complies, raising his head for another kiss. “You’re mine now, you know,” Tormund murmurs against his lips, sleepy and content. 

Jon brushes a few stray curls out of Tormund’s face, smiling, watching his eyes fall shut, feeling his breaths start to even out. “Yes, I’m yours,” he says quietly, gathering his courage, smoothing a hand through his hair again. And he can’t say it, not yet, the words that pulse against the skin of his throat, that float in the breaths that they share, hearts beating slow and steady as they lie pressed against each other in this bed in their corner of the world. But it doesn’t matter, because they have time, finally--nothing but the wide, wild expanse of the rest of their days, an open road for them to create for themselves, and no one else. 

Finally, they sleep.


End file.
